Archives for Preganancy

When asked several months ago what we should name baby, my kids had two answers: Rainbow (from Jenn; even nicer in Spanish — Arcoiris) and Max (from Jake). Of course, Rainbow is the name that stuck because it’s silly cute and way less common than Max.

Though Rainbow was due (and scheduled) for later in July, he decided to come on July 1 – a Canada Day surprise for all of us. Fortunately, for my Canadian husband, (who longs for many things he misses from the homeland), Rainbow made up for the lack of a Canada Day celebration. And fortunately for the husband, who has been living in Ohio during the week, he was home a day early for the 4th of July long weekend, so he got to come along to the hospital with me and Rainbow. (Actually, he didn’t come for about two hours after Rainbow and I first got there, so certain were we that the doctors would smile patronizingly, pat me on the shoulder and send us back home. I even knew what kind of ice cream we were going to buy on the way home. But that’s a story for a different day.)

So Rainbow was born, three weeks early in a tiny hospital 90 miles from our intended hospital. The doctors and nurses were lovely, the room was giant and the food was delicious. We were the only ones on the whole labor and delivery floor for most of our stay, except for one morning when a lady (also from out of town) came in to have twins. (The whole twins’ birth wrecked everything, as I couldn’t get a nurse’s attention that morning to save my life. The babies were early so were transferred to another hospital shortly after.)

In addition to remembering what life with a newborn is like (sweet and awful), I have been busily canceling all of my necessary pre-birth appointments. Apparently, it’s possible to have a baby without a fresh pedicure, nice eyebrows or new blond highlights. Or maybe Rainbow and I are a miracle. Rest assured, I’ll resume my grooming regimen once we return to the city, but nobody has commented on it yet. I expect nobody has been able to look past my new stripper-sized chest to notice that my hair needs color. Fortunately all of these things are only temporary.

My story isn’t different from many of the folks who landed here from elsewhere. I moved to New York City the week after I graduated from college. The job I found for the summer was at CBS and the hand-written note on my university’s job placement office deemed it “Very clerical in nature.” Perfect, sign me up! A few faxes later, I was hired and off to the public library in my hometown to check out books about New York City. This was before the internet so I found a cheap place to live by making phone calls — I ended up at the Webster women’s apartments — yes, just like on Bosom Buddies. (Old enough to remember that show? I loved it. Here’s the opening I found on youtube.)

My family and friends were horrified of my decision and I’m certain they all figured “Camp New York” wouldn’t last the summer. In fact, I had a return ticket to Michigan because I knew I couldn’t afford to stay if i didn’t have a “real” job by that time. I got to New York with no friends and no money so when I wasn’t working, I walked the streets. What a way to learn a city. I really believed EB White, when he wrote that “No one should come to New York to live unless he is willing to be lucky.” I was certain good fortune – a free drink or a date or a used book I wanted or a job – was around each corner. And it was. I have been lucky in New York: jobs, friends, lots of fun and now, a family.

The thing with being part of a family, of a marriage, is that we have to do things we don’t want to do, I am realizing. And for me, 41 years old, with two kids and 6 weeks away from having baby three, my worst possible “thing I don’t want to do” is happening. The husband has accepted a job elsewhere, (he started this week) and we are moving. Not to the suburbs, or even to the country near our cottage. We’re moving to Cleveland. And I once spent a few weeks working in Cleveland and thought it was a fun city, so this isn’t about Cleveland. In fact, everybody I know from there speaks of it with almost reverence — they lovelovelove it. This is about not wanting to leave where I am. I’m sad and pissed but guess I have to pull it together, because we’re going.

The kids know and are thrilled about having a house though they have each asked me if they’ll ever get to see their friends or babysitter (who has been with us since Jake was 5 months old) again. But they’re ready for an adventure.

In my head, I know it will be fine. A yard and a house and a school bus will all be fun for them – “normal” life, like where I grew up. They’re going to make a bunch of friends and we’ll go to watch the high school football games on Friday nights and it will all be great. The husband seems happy there, too, so far. And New York will always be here, but how often will we really get to come back? And how long until I’m able to make our lives as rich as they are here?

I know, I know what you’re thinking:

Boo hoo. Stop your pity party. Lots of people can’t find a job, even in Ohio. Lots of people don’t have wonderful families like you do. Lots of people are desperate for babies but something is not working. Lots of people have severe medical problems. Get over yourself…

I understand that I have it pretty good. But I’m still sad. (I’ll note that being pregnant is not helping.) Maybe most importantly, I’m still willing to be lucky , even if it’s in Ohio.

Lucky or not, I told the husband that I would probably cry every day for a year. So far, I’m right on on track.

Maybe I’m nuttier than normal this week, but I have to get this one off my chest. I’m not generally mean and I’m certain that with this post, I’m challenging thirty seven different rules of karma…

Dear Unnamed Person, (who does a very important task for me and whom I see EVERY day in my building),

I am happy you are in my life and I am grateful for the role you play in it. We would be hard-pressed to get by without your evening visits.

But I must tell you, that now, when I hear you getting off the elevator and heading toward my apartment, I hide in my kitchen so I don’t have to see you. It’s like when my mom would hustle my sister and me into my bedroom so the religious people walking down the street wouldn’t know we were home. (Though now, as a grown-up, it seems like it would have just have been easier to have answered the door and said, “No thank you, we’re good on religion.” But the hiding actually was fun.)

Of course, I can’t explain to you that I hide so I don’t have to see you because now that I’m visibly super-sized pregnant, you ask me every single day, “How are you feeling?” And you say it with such a big smile and happy, excited voice and I can even now hear the womanly-kinship as you revel in my pregnancy — but it makes me crazy so please stop. (I bet you are one of those fans who stand at mile 23 of the NY Marathon and yell, as the runners begin the final slog through the hills of Central Park, “You are so close! Almost there!” Rest assured that 3 miles isn’t almost there.) You see, just like those runners who don’t need to be lied to about how much more of a race there is, I don’t need to discuss how I feel every day, because I’m big as a house and very tired, and you and I are essentially strangers.

Maybe tomorrow you can just smile at me and wave from the door, and I’ll do the same in return. Or I may just stay in the kitchen. I can’t be sure.

I’m a bundle of fun, unless I’m pregnant. Then, I’m a little cranky and less enthused by many things. And I don’t have the benefit of a margarita. Last night, I had the pleasure of meeting friends for Mexican. I managed to “help” select a venue that was two blocks from my apartment (sorry, outer boroughs!), put on my prettiest maternity top – (which for me, means my top showing the least amount of cleavage and under-belly), got a babysitter and made it to the restaurant early, so I could watch my friends throw back their “starter margaritas.” Yay me! Miracle of life, virgin mojito, fun city. Wah.

In spite of my fleeting self pity, it was fun to be out. After everybody had downed their starter margaritas and moved on to wine, someone said I seemed to be looking okay (which I think means “not gruesome yet”) this pregnancy. A simpleton at receiving compliments, I’m sure I whined a little about my butt (daughter Jenn announced recently that “I think the baby is in your butt, too”), or my absurd sense of smell or my eyebrows growing faster than ever, and the only non-parent-man at the table piped up, in full rant mode:

The best pregnant look is to be pregnant. I mean, it’s not really a goal look for anyone, is it? The key is to actually BE pregnant when you look pregnant…

He continued on from there, but I kind of stopped listening, so happy was I with this little gem — thank goodness I actually am (usually) pregnant when I look pregnant. (Ok– I’m totally leaving aside how excited (really!) and lucky I am to be having #3 when a bucket of people I know would be THRILLED to be in my situation, especially at (gulp) almost 41.) But my friend is right — I am pregnant and I look it and it’s temporary.

The problem will present itself the week after the baby is born and some guileless bystander asks me when I am due. Yes, that did happen to me after #2, and I was most certainly wearing my prettiest post-pregnancy top. But, of course, I probably had the benefit of a margarita at that point, so the truth didn’t sting as much.